


ain't it exciting you, the rumble where you lay?

by gravitaz



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: F/M, Gentleness, Hair-pulling, Idiots in Love, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Sexual Content, man. two broken ppl gently repairing each other with kisses and soft touches. sighs, that's my fucken brand babey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-29 04:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20076034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravitaz/pseuds/gravitaz
Summary: Fairhollow, Malachi decides, has been anything but fair.While everything ended up working in his favour eventually, it has all left him with a knot in his stomach that he doesn’t think will unfurl for quite some time. There’s been a lot lost because of him – respect, freedom,lives– and as he enters his family's home for the last time before he and his friends depart, he can feel the weight of those sacrifices like a ball and chain and tries (and fails) to feel worthy to bear it.





	ain't it exciting you, the rumble where you lay?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeVen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeVen/gifts).

> so this is original work for my own dnd campaign, which is now approaching its fourth arc and still going on a long way after this. one of the pcs romanced my fighter/warlock npc and the rest is history
> 
> thanks to taylor for writing such a kickass character as malachi and also letting me use him for this. warnings for gratuitous overexplanation. title from nfwmb by hozier (specifically [this cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vAMASlOhY_I) which made my gay little heart bleed thanks paola bennet)
> 
> disclaimer: obviously i do not and never will consent to my work being hosted on any unofficial apps, particularly those that make money off of ad revenue and subscription services. i am extremely uncomfortable with the idea of my work being behind any kind of paywall , and/or being used without my express permission, especially since there is already a perfectly inuitive mobile reader available through a mobile web browser.

Fairhollow, Malachi decides, has been anything _but _fair.

While everything ended up working in his favour eventually, it has all left him with a knot in his stomach that he doesn’t think will unfurl for quite some time. There’s been a lot lost because of him – respect, freedom, _lives_ – and as he enters his family's home for the last time before he and his friends depart, he can feel the weight of those sacrifices like a ball and chain and tries (and fails) to feel worthy to bear it.

The hardest thing about all of it is the betrayal of his own family throughout it all. He thinks of the sickeningly gentle words his mother wrote to him before they even arrived in the town. He thinks of the way she had warned him about their guide, his _lover_, when he should have been on guard around _her_. He thinks of the way he had so easily given her their location. It’s all enough to brew a stormy sea inside his lungs and, oh, how he spends a minute just _drowning_ in it.

“That you, Mal?” He hears a voice call down the stairs. It is mellifluous and pleasant, a low hum of a melody weaving in the air around him as Alethra comes down to meet him. The way she walks is relaxed, and he can hear a smile on her words before he even sees it. Even feeling like this, her body language combined with the casual clothing she wears causes the space between his lungs to warm just a little.

And yet, she seems to notice from a mile away that something isn’t quite right. It’s the way she stops dead in her tracks about halfway down the stairs that gives it away. Although he does not meet her gaze, he can tell she’s frowning.

“Sweetheart?” She says, in a tone that she reserves for the darker moments. It nearly overfills Malachi’s chest. “What’s wrong?”

He shrugs, because what exactly can he say?

He expects her to drop it, like she had done before the truth fell out and before things started to truly look bleak. Alethra does not like to overstep her boundaries. In her position, and at her rank, she defers to no one but royalty; however, even the slightest misstep could change that in a heartbeat.

Instead, though, she laughs. The sound is humourless. “Stupid question, huh?” She asks him, and he flinches – not because she sounds angry or irritated by his silence, but because she just sounds _sad_. And honestly, who could blame her for feeling that way? Fairhollow did not treat Alethra kindly either.

“I’m sorry-" he begins, but the words die in his mouth when she gives him a rueful look.

“Don’t worry,” she tells him, easier said than done. She seems to realise this, and so appends the statement with, “None of this was your fault, you know. You don’t have to apologise. You’ve done _nothing _wrong.”

“But I-"

Alethra moves closer, then, as though he is a startled fawn and will scarper if she moves too quickly. When she is close enough, she gently takes both of his hands in both of hers. Malachi looks down at where he ends and she begins, the contrast of their skin a mild distraction from the whirlpool swirling in his brain. “Okay, I’ll bite,” she says. “Tell me what you’re sorry for.”

It isn’t a question; it’s a command. She hasn’t adopted the voice of a Captain, but he gets the feeling that the only reason she hasn’t is that she doesn’t want to frighten him away. And he does feel ever so fragile; he can see why she has avoided such a tactic.

“For taking your freedom from you,” he whispers, staring at where his fingers meet hers and not feeling worthy of her hands.

“I gave that up willingly, and it wasn’t to you. Next.”

“For being this way.”

“You say that as if that wasn’t what I was attracted to in the first place. Next.”

“For...” He trails off, finding himself having to think. “My mother’s behaviour?” It sounds ridiculous, even to him.

“Is that a question?” She squeezes his hands gently. “Because if so, I disagree. If that poisonous bitch feels even a shred of guilt for all she’s done, she can come to me herself. You don’t do her dirty work. Next.”

And the list continues. It only stutters along two more points, which she rebuffs with expertise. It is as if – and the thought of this makes him feel a little ill – she has experience in dealing with thoughts like these. The idea of someone as strong willed as Alethra having insecurities and doubts brings a little wave of sadness to crash in his lungs. And yet, she shoulders his own problems like a professional.

He wonders what he did to deserve this kind of luck.

When he runs out of faults to find, she kisses his parted lips with all the sweetness of cane sugar. “You see?” she says into his mouth. He doesn’t know if she means to make him _shiver_ like he does when she talks like that. “Not your fault. You did everything _right._”

There’s a little voice in the back of his mind, as there always is, that vehemently disagrees. He could have been smarter. He could have been quicker. He could have been _better._ But Alethra is louder than it, and he can hear a gentle, beautiful chorus of _not your fault, not your fault_ growing until it almost completely drowns out the other one vying for his attention.

When she pulls back, he chases her lips, cherishing the honey-laden validation they offer him. He looks into her eyes, and his gaze is calm for the first time since they arrived. The tempest in his ribcage has been quelled, just for now. His mouth forms a smile, just a tiny one.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice quiet. “_Thank you_.”

She beams back at him. Though he can tell she wants to ask him what he is thanking her for, she does not ask. Not because she knows, not because she wants to dispute that she needs thanks, but because she knows that it is not important. “Any time,” she tells him. “You know that, darling.”

The way she says the word is calm and saccharine, and so is the way she finds his lips again, all caramel and gentle tides. Tides have a habit, though, of cutting a person off before they even know what is happening to them. And this is true of the way Malachi kisses her, deep and needy. This time, when he drowns, the water is beautiful and it is warm and it is kindly.

When she moves away, he whines just a little in protest before he can quite catch the sound. She regards him with a startled expression, eyebrows raised just a little, and he immediately clears his throat and hopes that he doesn’t look as embarrassed as he feels (even though he _knows_ he does). “Sorry, I just-” he says awkwardly, looking away from her. “You’re, uh, good. Sorry.”

He doesn’t know what he expects from her, but he definitely does not expect her to laugh at him. His gaze snaps back to hers, and she tries to suppress a giggle with a hand pressed to her mouth. “Sorry,” she chuckles when she sees him frowning. “Sorry, you’re just – you’re so _cute_. Can I kiss you again?”

His heart hammers in this type of way that immediately causes heat to rise to his cheeks. He hates it, how at even the suggestion of Alethra treating him gently and kindly, his skin flushes red. Alethra has no such reservations, though, so when he nods, she eagerly meets him in the middle and kisses him as though she will never get to kiss him again. After a moment when they pause for breath, breaking into quicker and more urgent kisses, he lets his eyes meet her own.

“You know,” he says breathlessly. “Hallway isn’t exactly the most comfortable place in the house. We could take this upstairs.”

He blushes even as he says it. but he hears Alethra's breathing hitch just a little as she regards him, clearly surprised by his boldness but not exactly pushed away by it, and his embarrassment melts. The sound stirs something in his stomach.

“Are you- really, are you sure?”

“Wouldn't say it if I wasn’t.”

“We don’t have to.” Alethra bites her lip, as if trying very hard to be sensible. “I mean, that’s not- not to say I don’t want to-"

“I want to.” He gazes at her, surety swelling in the space between his teeth. “Shall we?”

Malachi doesn’t know what he expects her to say. Alethra is as unpredictable as the ocean currents she once sailed upon; it is one of the many things that drew him to her. It is for this reason that he cannot exactly say that he is surprised when she decides to say nothing. Instead, she takes his hand and leads him back up his own staircase, quietly laughing as she does so and pulling him into the first room they come across.

It takes Malachi a second to even recognise the room they’re in, he’s so caught up in Alethra. But of course, seeing the vanity in the far corner of the room and the ornate jewellery on stands on top of it reminds him vaguely that, _oh_, this is his _mother’s _room. How wonderfully ironic.

He lets Alethra continue to lead him, lets her reattach her lips to his and lean him against the wall, though not hard enough that he has no recourse should he need it. That is one thing that has always surprised him about her, more than everything else; how gentle she can be, in spite of her caustic nature.

He moves away from her mouth after a time, peppering kisses around her lips and down, down, tracing her jawline and landing in the juncture where her neck meets her shoulders. When he pushes away the fabric of her still-fastened shirt at her clavicle and nips at the exposed skin of her neck, she _gasps_, body rocking forward just a little to be nearer to him. He knows that she isn’t shy about being vocal and definitely doesn’t mind surprises, but Malachi still pulls back to look at her, an apologetic look in his eyes

“Ah, shit," he says, “Sorry, I should have-"

“Stop it, Mal,” she chastises him, pushing him backward so that his back flattens against the wall. “Stop worrying. I’m not made of porcelain. You aren’t going to break me.”

“Well, yeah, it’s easy for you to _say_ that-"

“I’ve thrown men goddamn near three times my weight and size bodily off of my vessels before. Honestly. If you _knowingly_ did anything I didn’t like-” and she gives him this look that he can only describe as _soft_, as if she knows and trusts that he wouldn’t even _dream_ of such behaviour “-then you would be out the window. Literally. I wouldn’t care what story we were on.”

Somehow, the threat doesn’t intimidate him like it would have done when he first met her. After a moment’s pause, he pulls her back in and kisses her fervently. “Actually, that’s fair,” he says against her lips and she laughs the smallest bit into his mouth. The taste of her mirth is sweet. “I’d expect nothing less from you.”

Alethra pulls at the buttons at his neck, unloosing them and carefully removing the layer, and stills for only a moment. That moment feels like a century to Malachi. He knows what that mark means, now, and so does she, with raven feather wings tattooed on her soul and a contract in exchange for his life. His immediate instinct, though he does not want to obey it, is to push her back before she can end things herself, to shut the door on her before she slams it in his face. He loves her, truly, but he doesn’t know how he is supposed to handle this.

All of this is forgotten when the moment ends, the spell is broken. She kisses him, deep and warm in a way that pools heat into his stomach, and he lets her work from his lips, down his jaw, to his neck. His knees turn to water when she traces the jagged white scar that almost tore them apart, lips grazing it lovingly, as if she does not care what it means.

It only cements how much he _adores_ her, although he will not tell her that yet.

He brings his hands to the buttons on her own shirt, thankful that he doesn’t have to work through several layers of regalia. He much prefers the way she has begun to dress since Rivermeet. She looks much happier in clothes that don’t dictate her rank before she even speaks it herself. He finds himself wondering, for no reason in particular, if this was what she wore when she was skippering her vessels. He finds himself wondering, as he casts her shirt aside, what it would be like to be captained by her, as if the thought doesn’t set his heart aflutter.

“You know,” he says, breaking the focused silence between the pair. “I don’t know why we’re at a wall. I mean.” He grins, a wicked little thought popping into his mind as he gestures behind Alethra at the bed his mother sleeps in when she stays here. “As hot as that is, there’s literally a bed right there.”

It takes Alethra a second to catch onto the implication, but when she does, her eyes widen almost comically. “_Malachi_.” She tries to sound scandalised, but she laughs and breaks the character. Malachi can’t help but grin, too. The irony of his proposal is delicious; his mother _hates_ Alethra, and would loathe nothing more than them behaving like _this_ in a room she uses. “That’s_ evil. _You’re a fucking genius.”

“Not a genius,” he corrects her with a kiss, sliding the straps of her undershirt off of her shoulders. “Just petty and in the right company.”

“I’m a bad influence,” she admits, but she doesn’t sound apologetic at all. Nor does she seem sorry to pull him backward and down with her onto the bed, strip him down, kiss him as if he is oxygen and she can’t breathe.

Then again, he doesn’t regret peeling off the rest of her clothes either. He doesn’t stop her. He does not let her choke.

“I think,” Alethra says when they break apart, her voice trembling and breathless. “I think I really wanna _ride_ you. And I kinda want you to watch me. Is that okay?”

Malachi’s breath catches in his throat; he nearly chokes on it. Of course, Alethra has never been one to mince words. He still hadn’t expected her to be so _indelicate_. He doesn’t know why. She was the _Oceanflayer_, a Pirate, of course she’s going to speak that way. Being honest, anyway, it is hardly what Malachi would call a problem. It’s just the opposite. A thrill creeps up his spine, working its magic in prickles all across the surface of his skin.

“Yes,” he says. He’s afraid for a moment that he sounds too eager. And then he decides that he does not care. “_Please.”_

She seems too preoccupied to notice, anyway. She nods, huffs out “Cool,” and pushes him back against the pillows. She swings a leg over him, and he can feel this heart thrumming impossibly fast as she positions herself properly, nearly sitting in his lap. And when she looks at him, eyes big and dark and eager, he nearly feels himself shatter then and there.

“I’ll start slow,” she says. And then she lowers herself down onto him and he _gasps._ She’s so _warm_ around him, and the look on her face as she slots herself onto him is too beautiful for even the finest galleries – brow furrowed, teeth catching her bottom lip, eyes closed as she takes the length of him carefully. He hears her sharply inhale herself, but the look she gives him next is not a bad one; no, it’s _expectant._

“Good?” she asks.

He has forgotten how to speak. He nods instead.

“Wonderful.” She starts to rock her hips, grinding down onto him, and he lets out this _noise_. “You relax for the second; you deserve it. Let me do the work. Sound okay?”

He nods again. This time, even that motion stutters.

And so she does. She holds him close, skin warm against his own as she rolls herself forward onto him, keeping the pace manageable. This is not the wild, impassioned night they shared on the way to this town; no, this is softer. Gentler. More sacred.

He presses his forehead to hers as she finds the cadence of her movement; he is close enough to her that his vision blurs. The woman atop him is all he has wanted for a long time, and he trusts her, and when she draws in a sudden breath of her own, the world around him stops. He wants to be _nearer _to her, wants to hear all those sweet little sounds she looses and all the praise she blesses him with as loud as he can.

“Look at me, properly?” She asks him, and her voice is barely there, strained, _desperate. _He pulls back to oblige, and is greeted by her smiling eyes as she looks tenderly back at him. “You are so _beautiful_, you know that? Could you just- I think I need a little more, be an angel, and just-"

She interrupts herself with a positively _obscene_ gasp as Malachi's hips press upwards. He can’t quite keep in a hiss himself. “_Oh_,” Alethra encourages, a breathy murmur. “Yeah, there we are. That’s _perfect_, my love. Gods, you’re so- you’re so _good_.”

It takes him a while to find a rhythm - the woman in his lap is so experienced and so _beautiful,_ and he still feels nervous – but when he finds it, it’s easy to keep it up. Alethra doesn’t hold back, either, humming approval into the skin of his neck as he moves. Her whispers soon turn to stammers, and it isn’t long before he feels a wave rising in his own gut begging him to let go.

“Give it a minute,” Alethra says, as though reading his mind. She pulls herself up off of him, and he nearly cries out in frustration, but she’s quickly got her hand around him and is pulling him closer with every stroke, confident and drawn out. When he looks into her eyes, jaw slack and mouth just a little agape, she looks right back at him with a tender undercurrent in her stare_. It’s okay_, that look tells him, _I’m here to catch you._

This is the moment in which Malachi realises that Alethra loves like she fights; deliberately, whole-heartedly, _beautifully_.

And this is the thought which prompts him to crash like a wave on a shore, his vision prickling with white hot light around the edges. She’s there all the while, leaning down, kissing him sweetly through the current. He exhales her name into her waiting mouth.

If this is how he drowns, then so _be it_.

He comes back down too quickly, tired and out of breath, and she smiles like an angel. He’s warm all over, and for the moment, he knows nothing of fear or sadness or shame. Under her gaze, he feels safe. Maybe that’s what makes him carefully flip their positions, propping her back against the pillows. Maybe that’s what drives him to pepper kisses down her body carefully, over her chest, her stomach. Maybe that’s why he soon finds himself between her thighs.

“Mal, wait,” she says, voice trembling, tone needy. He looks up at her, brow furrowed in concern, but she doesn’t look worried for herself. “I can- you, you know you don’t have to, I-”

“Maybe not.” His eyes beseech her gently from where he is poised. “But I really want to. Can I?”

Her breath shakes as she exhales. His enthusiasm turns her to putty in his hands; never does she recall being wanted so _badly._ It spreads across her skin in a wave, goose bumps rising to the surface. “_Please_,” she says, and she doesn’t mean to sound quite as much like she’s _begging_ as she does, but Malachi seems to appreciate the want in her tone.

He sets to work. She can tell without even really knowing that his fingers weave magic gifted to him by the Gods. One of them, two, and she is already under his spell. What she doesn’t fully expect (even though, in hindsight, she should have) is that his mouth can spell out that magic, too.

When she feels his tongue, she _swears_, and can’t quite keep her hips from jumping just a little. It would embarrass her how responsive she is, if she were in the state of mind to care. Malachi takes it in his stride as if he knows what to do, though, and it must just be instinct telling him that this is _good_, that he has her exactly where he wants her. Her hands find themselves at his head, fingers lacing through his hair.

“Good _gods_,” she breathes, looking down at him. Malachi decides that she’s most beautiful from this vantage point; eyes sparkling, skin flushed, hair wild at her shoulders. He could get used to the view. “Don’t stop, that’s _awesome,_ please don’t stop.”

Alethra feels him smile more than she sees it. And she can safely bet that his expression is smug, and that somehow gets her even _more _riled up_. _When he sets about moving again, hands in a rhythm and mouth as punctuation, her hands turn to fists as she tugs his hair the way she knows he likes. The way he _keens _when she does makes her laugh breathlessly, just before the vibration of the sound sees a similar noise rising from her own lips.

She likes to make out that she’s tough, intimidating, strong. And she is all three of those things, but around Malachi, it all melts. All it takes the methodical and measured press of his fingers and flick of his tongue, and she feels a chain begin to twist and unspool in her stomach.

“Fucking hell, _Malachi_,” she moans, her head falling backward against the pillows. “_Fuck_, I think I-"

“I’m here,” he whispers, his breath warm against her. He fumbles for her hand, both of them trembling as he squeezes it tight, and tells her what she told him the first time they found themselves this way. “I’m here, ‘Leth, I’ve got you.”

Alethra has never been a religious woman. While the rest of the village children were at their temples and churches, she would be skimming stones on the surface of the tides that slowly overcame Farncombe’s beaches. Kelemvor is Malachi's god, not hers. Even the Raven Queen is little more than demanding boss, never mind a goddess. And yet, Alethra feels a sacred flame burning in her ribcage when she meets Malachi's gaze, radiant and holy. Her senses sing a hymn.

She tells him she loves him and it sounds like a prayer.

She’s all sparks and ashes when she breaks open with a whimper, sunlight streaming into the dark, dusty spaces in her chest. There is no reservation; she cracks wide and bright. And all the while, Malachi’s hand holds hers firmly, an anchor in a stormy tide.

When the last of it fades, she wearily falls back against the mattress, face peacefully slack and breathing hard. She feels Malachi fill the space bedside her like he was made to fit there, and when he kisses her, she tastes the two of them on his mouth. It makes something in her _sing_.

“Did you mean it?” Malachi’s voice is an awed, sleepy whisper from beside her. She gives him a look, a question in her eyes. “When you said- when you said you love me?”

It’s her turn, then, to be a little embarrassed. She had meant for the first time she told him that verbally to be far more official and practiced, befitting someone of her position and role. But the man beside her, in all his own inelegances, has managed to demolish the mile-high walls around her heart and she feels warm, she feels bright, she feels truly at home under his stare.

And so, she nods. Of course she does. What else is there to do?

“Of course I meant it,” she tells him. “You don’t go to the Astral Plane for someone you don’t love, Mal.”

She regrets her word choice a little when she sees him wince just the smallest bit. “I know,” he mumbles. “I know that, but you’ve not _said _it before.”

“Well, I am now.” She takes both of his hands in hers. “I am in _love _with you, Malachi Havermoon.”

There’s a silence that follows, and she grows fearful that he can hear her heartbeat grow harder and louder, until he _smiles_. And when he does, against the cool air in the Havermoon mansion, it feels like the sun has just come out. Her heart flutters in her chest when he presses a gentle kiss to her neck.

“Me too,” he murmurs. “But with you.”

Alethra did not know how this would feel, nor whether or not she would be able to handle the emotion. But when Malachi speaks, when he confirms his reciprocation, it does not feel like the grand romantic gesture that she had been told it would. It feels even _better_ – she loves that he does not even have to think about showy displays of affection. She loves that he can just say it as casually as mentioning that they needed to purchase flour from the market.

And perhaps this is why, before he falls asleep in her arms and before she wakes up next to him the following morning, she simply responds with “Cool.”

Maybe this is how she can so calmly admit that she no longer fears the word “forever".

Perhaps this is why, despite how momentous the phrase, she lets her eyes drift closed with a calm sea stirring in her brain.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr [here](https://gravitaz.tumblr.com), just in case you wanted to follow me! i mostly post taz and critrole. my next fic should be a taz one so subscribe if you're into that! kudos and comments are appreciated! uwu


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